CLAIMED BY THE BLACK RIDGE ALPHAS

Chapter 1: The Job That Should Not Exist The bills had piled up again, stacked higher than the wrench set on my workbench, a constant reminder of how thin the margin had become. My phone sat silent on the shelf—I couldn't bear another conversation with the bank lady, her voice always carrying that tight, rehearsed quality that made my shoulders creep up toward my ears. I had my head buried under the hood of the red Harley when the sound of engines cut through the open bay doors and changed everything. Three of them. Heavy, deep-throated machines that didn't belong to the usual crowd. The noise had a clean, deliberate quality, not the rattling chaos of bikes held together with hope and duct tape. I straightened slowly, wiping my hands on the rag that had long since stopped being clean, and watched three men step off black motorcycles like they owned the cracked concrete beneath their boots. The tall one in the middle moved with the confidence of someone used to being listened to. "Monroe?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. "That's me," I said, keeping my voice flat. I'd learned long ago that showing too much interest in strangers who rode in looking for work was a good way to get tangled in things that didn't end well. He nodded once. "Damien Cross. These are Knox and Ryder. We need work done. Long term. Cash." The one called Ryder grinned like the whole world was an inside joke. "Heard you fix the ones nobody else can keep running. The hopeless cases." I tossed the rag onto the bench. "I fix what pays. Club work usually comes with more trouble than money." " This one pays better than the trouble," Damien said. The third man, Knox, hadn't spoken. He stood there, broad-shouldered and still, his eyes moving slowly around the garage like he was memorizing every detail. When his gaze landed on the tools hanging on the wall, something flickered across his face. I kept my attention on Damien. "Show me the bikes first." They rolled them in one by one. I walked around the first, running my hand along the frame until I found the dent that shouldn't have been there. "You hit something hard." Damien answered without hesitation. "Road does that sometimes." Ryder leaned against my toolbox. "Or the other guy does. Depends on the day." I glanced at him. "You always talk this much?" "Only when the mechanic's worth watching." Knox's voice came quiet from the side. "Your father's tools. Still using them." I stopped and turned to face him. "How do you know that?" He nodded toward the wall where my father's old set hung. "The tape on the grips. Same pattern he used for decades. Kept half the riders in this county moving." I didn't like how much he noticed. "You here for history or for bikes?" Damien stepped closer to the second machine. "Bikes. All three. We need them solid, reliable, ready for anything. Regular work after that if you want it." I checked the primary on the middle bike. "This needs a full rebuild. Parts alone will cost you." "Money's not the problem," Damien said. Ryder added, "Time might be. We don't like sitting still." I looked at all three of them. "I don't work with an audience. You drop them off, you leave, I call when they're ready." Damien's mouth almost curved. "We'll stay for the first look. After that, your call." Knox finally met my eyes directly. "You always this ready to send people out the door?" "Only the ones who make the air feel heavier." Ryder laughed. "She's got you there, Knox." I ignored him and got under the third bike. The exhaust crack was thin but ugly. "This one would've left somebody stranded in another week." Damien's voice dropped. "That's exactly why we're here. We need to know these bikes won't fail when it matters." Ryder crouched near me. "You always frown like that when you find something wrong?" "I frown when the work's going to take longer than the money covers." "It'll cover," Damien said. "More than cover." I stood up and faced him. "You talk like someone used to people saying yes." "I am." "I'm not most people." Knox spoke again, barely above a murmur. "We noticed." The silence that followed sat strange and heavy between us. I made my decision. "I'll take the job. One condition. You stay out of the bay while I work. I don't need three shadows counting every bolt." Ryder held up both hands. "No shadows. Scout's honor." "You were never a scout." "True. But I can pretend." Damien nodded. "Deal. We'll check in, not hover." Knox looked at me one more time. "You always work alone?" "Prefer it." "Preference changes." I didn't answer that. I just pointed toward the open bay doors. "Bikes stay. You go. I'll call when the first one's ready." They moved together toward the exit. Damien paused at the threshold. "You need anything before we leave, tools, parts, say the word." "I need quiet." Ryder called back over his shoulder. "Quiet's overrated. You'll see." Knox didn't say goodbye. He just looked at me one final time, then followed the other two out into the dusk. Their engines started in the same instant, a synchronized roar that rolled down the empty street and faded. I stood there with the rag clutched in my fist, staring at the empty doorway longer than I should have, my mind already turning over the problems each bike presented. The garage felt different after they left. Quieter, but not lighter. The air seemed thicker, charged with the residue of their presence. I locked up later than usual and drove home with the windows down, trying to shake the tension that had settled between my shoulder blades. That night I dreamed of engines that sounded like breathing, of three pairs of eyes that didn't look fully human. I woke with my heart racing and the clear memory of hands that had never touched me still warm against my skin, leaving me breathless and confused in the gray light of early morning.